Not Alone
by Arianna555
Summary: Hurt, drunk, mistake, and to the beginning yet again. There's plenty of room for something new. [lit] Complete.
1. Drink

**Not Alone**

**Chapter 1 – Drink**

**Disclaimer:** ((holds up blank sheet of paper)) I don't even own this. Lyrics are from "Drowning," by Dashboard Confessional.

**A/N: **If there are any mistakes or incorrect details about drinking or otherwise, I apologize. I have **zero** experience. I'm fifteen, lol. "Research" was from other fiction… So if anything is wrong I am really sorry. I can't say I'm qualified in any way to write this but…I'm giving it a shot. It's probably gonna be a short multi-parter. Feedback is always very much appreciated.

To EFW, because she is so awesome. To Lia, to Steph, and to Mai because they rock and I miss talking to them. To Leigh, because she read this over for me, and because she's Leigh.

---

_Truth is in a tall beer._

_Are you drowning your fears_

_In a glass of deception?___

---

Faces and light are reflected in the amber liquid, but as the level lessens and the beer disappears down his throat, they become fuzzier and fuzzier, less and less clear.

He doesn't recognize a single one.

People punch his arm awkwardly in greeting and he shrugs it off, mumbling things that he hopes sound somewhat like 'go away'. He's well aware that he's totally wasted and he doesn't even hate himself for it this time.

It used to be that nothing mattered until everything had happened. It was never anything, it was no big deal, until he woke up in an unfamiliar bed and felt sicker than sick. That always hurt him most, and he'd try to get himself up and going and gone before he could be faced with someone he didn't recognize. Hurt or expectant or eager, it was all the same. It was always disappointing.

It was the only thing that ever hurt him. He tells himself it hurts, because he believes that it should, but really the pain is all dulled now, all insignificant.

Magic, this is.

The whole room is pulsating around him, flashing lights and loud music and people dancing every which way. Loud laughter and downing mugs and a few sounds of breaking glasses on the counter as they are slammed down too hard. It's an assembly line, a vicious circle that never stops. Hurt, drunk, mistake, and to the beginning yet again.

All he has to do is lie back and relax.

The glass is cool on his lips and he tilts it back, expecting another long swallow. Leftover drops slide down the sides and to his face, and he shakes his head, setting the glass down himself.

He hasn't broken one yet.

"Drew?"

The bartender walks slowly up to Jess, looking placid and calm and superior. He's never drunk. He's never high. He looks almost like an angel all grown up in the middle of purgatory, while Jess floats atop the river Styx, begging Charon for some direction. It annoys the hell out of him, this unwavering angelic look, taunting him: he can't be that, he gave that up long ago. Where does this guy get off being a bartender, staring at people like him and making clear exactly what he thinks without a word? He has no idea what it's like. Like hell he's better than everyone here; at least most of them know life isn't always perfect.

"You're back," Drew states.

And Jess hopes to god he's said nothing in a drunken frenzy—nothing about the past, nothing he doesn't want anyone to know—'cause if he did, he shouldn't be here. He's ashamed of both who he—Jess—is himself, as well as the fact that he doesn't know who he wants to be.

But then, who cares.

"That I am."

Drew has always been impressed with Jess' ability to keep up what could pass as intelligent conversation, long after he's pretty much gone. "Man, you don't need anything else." He meets Jess' stare with a smirk reminiscent of his own, in some twisted way.

"C'mon."

"What is with all these people and glitter?" Drew asks, expertly changing the subject. "Gives me a headache."

"It's part of the experience," Jess replies offhandedly. "Bit like the beer. All blurs together. Nice visual."

"Huh, I bet. You seeing anything clear right now?"

"This glass. It's sharp and neat and empty."

"Nice observation, Mariano."

"How in hell do you know my last name?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson. Go the hell home. Now."

"Nah, she's there." She isn't there, at least, he's pretty sure she's not, but it's a damn good enough excuse. She wouldn't know where he lives, she couldn't, but he wouldn't put it past her to be there when he finally makes it home.

"What, is there a reason for the hangover today?"

"Quit trying, you win."

"Trying?" Drew answers, acting innocent. Jess stands up and slips on his jacket, shoving one hand into his pocket and slamming the mug down with the other, on purpose. A chip breaks off the base and skitters across the counter.

"Man, nice one."

Jess ignores him and slams the door of the bar, shocked at the sudden silence after roaring of sports games and blaring music. It's quiet in the city and he doesn't fucking like it at all.

The concrete is smooth and reassuringly hard under his feet. He hears the tapping of shoes on sidewalk, when he listens, and after awhile it transfers itself to his head. Tap, tap, tap. It gets louder and louder until he can barely stand it, and he keeps walking. His head is splitting with pain, but it all gets better from here.

She'd tasted good.

He doesn't remember where he'd met her, where they'd found one another again. There was something about ohmygod it's you, just another person on a street corner but it's you, and something about a hideaway near the street she'd dragged him into just to make sure she was right about it being him, and that is all the residue of this flash of a reunion left over from the shower of beer and smoke that's been poured through his head tonight.

He does recall that her eyes were glittering with a ferocity he'd never seen, and that her hair was shorter—with his hand on her cheek, it barely brushed his wrist. The expression on her face had told him that with her hair had gone her innocence, and with a soft kiss he had welcomed her to the world.

And he had discovered that she'd brushed up on her glare; that it was twice as strong and twice as meaningful and elicited a reaction as painful as always. A sharp, quick dash of pain and then instinct took over and he muttered things and took off.

And the next thing he knew was strobe lights and people moving everywhere, indefatigable, no taste in music whatsoever.

His feet take him there automatically.

He always heads straight for the path to forgetting, and usually he makes it on alright.

-

The pattern never ends, and cool drinks slipping down his throat are a nice release from everything that somehow accumulates on top of him during the day. He has taken pretty much no responsibilities and makes no promises anymore, so he has no idea how it gets there, but always it does.

Perhaps it is that very fact, that he doesn't do anything, that makes him feel so guilty. The guilt is unexplainable but a constant by now, and he makes room easily enough for the ache.

There's plenty of space in his rhythm for something new.

-

Drew leaves the bar months later, giving Jess a friendly clap on the shoulder as he walks out after his last shift. The fact that he has seen a bartender's whole career come and go depresses him, and Drew is replaced by some idiot who Jess harbors even more of a hatred for, if that were possible. He is carded almost every night he's there to throw himself into nothing for the fun of it, and he wonders what it is about the haggard look, circles under his eyes, and dirty jacket that makes him look ten years younger than he actually is.

It's a few weeks later when he pulls the ID out the wrong way, and his picture flashes back at him; the letters that spell out his information blurry in the lighting and his own dizziness. When it's passed back and he's sliding it into his wallet, he notices his date of birth and suddenly feels sick.

He's twenty-six next month and his life is a disaster; it's everything he always dreamed of and everything everyone always hoped he wouldn't be.

Being a disappointment isn't a difficult goal and he's so damn glad.

-

He has a job but never mentions it nor thinks of it because it's nothing. Most days, he's late, and most days, no one notices. The fact that he has to go halfway to the suburbs to work is bad enough; the fact that he never spent energy in order to get here makes it worse. Sometimes, walking through Manhattan, he wants to hand his job to someone on the streets, and watch his or her life explode in possibility while he sits and stretches out and rests there on the sidewalk.

He knows, though, he would never do that; there is some spark in him that keeps him going and keeps him appearing, ten minutes late or otherwise. He has no one to wake up and no one to stay up late for, but nevertheless he does. Just for the hell of it.

He makes enough money to live and survive and be okay, and the rest he blows off on drinks and things he doesn't remember paying for.

He can't stand the Reader's Digest Condensed Books in his apartment, but he swallows his pride.

He never thinks of her and how she's finishing grad school and how back when they were eighteen he promised he'd be proud of her.

He lied.

He's not.

He isn't even jealous.

-

A man comes out of a jewelry store one day as Jess passes by, stumbling into him. Jess smells smoke on him from a foot away, and as the guy coughs he can tell there is alcohol there too. He almost wants to be—kind?—and to tell him to get the hell home and lie down and drink water, but instead he shoves the guy away and continues down the street. It is fifteen minutes later that the face he barely saw strikes a memory in his head, and he feels some sick, mild sense of satisfaction that, like him, most people never really move on; that no one is perfect, particularly not those who pretend to be. That a job doesn't define a person in the least.

It's Drew.

He begins to think he recognizes people, randomly, on the streets, not that he ever says anything. He knows them from the bar, from their secret lives. Just once he's seen them, but once is enough. He is not the only one who does things wrong.

It makes him angry that he's not the only one, he's never the only one, but at the same time there is an unexplainable rush of almost-joy at the realization.

-

Ideas swirl in his head of fitting the puzzle pieces of his life back together, but in seconds they are dismissed and ignored. Various things bring these unlikely questions to his mind. They lead him to uncertain conclusions and lessen his stability by half, and this all again lands him somewhere, drowning himself in uncertainty.

He isn't scared of anything, but he doesn't give a damn about anything he should care about either.

The phone at his apartment inexplicably begins to ring more often—or else he just notices it more—but he will not buy an answering machine, and he celebrates his birthday watching his face reflect in liquor and half-listening to an old bartender in a leather vest threatening to cut him off.

It's the best party he could ever have asked for.


	2. Smoke

**Not Alone**

**Chapter Two - Smoke**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Jess (most unfortunately), I don't own Rory, and I sure don't own New York. ;-) Lyrics again from "Drowning".

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the encouragement on this fic. This is more Rory-centered; most of this happens before the Jess stuff seen in the last chapter. The meeting is the same one Jess 'mentioned' before.

To Leigh (thank you so much!). To Christie. To Jin (thank you!!). To Elise. To Stephanie. To Molly (GQSecondAct). And to Lorena.

--

_And you'll be sorry  
Isn't that what they say?  
Don't follow your heart  
'Cause it just seems to get in your way._

--

It's the smell that bothers her, actually.

Not so much the smell, always, but the essence of it all, and the smoke more than anything else. There's always someone with a cigarette or cigar just downwind— down-air, rather—because she's lucky that way. The smell is bitter, the taste when swallowed makes her cough, and she's heard that secondhand smoke can kill you faster than smoking yourself.

She gets nervous, a little, but fights it down, and sometimes she can get so used to it that she calls it bittersweet instead of awful.

She jumps backwards, suddenly, avoiding someone barreling toward her, trying not to step on anyone herself. She picks her way through the huge group of people, knowing that she's going somewhere—where, though, she has no idea. Awkwardly, she brushes her hair behind her ear, feeling ridiculous, and she reminds herself that next year she will be twenty-six.

Like the substance that mostly makes it up, the atmosphere is intoxicating. It's probably not good, but it is and she can't help it and it is not her fault.

Somehow, she ends up sitting down, and their glasses are nice, real glass, with a handle that fits her hand comfortably. Concentrating on these simple, mundane things helps. The quality of the drink, of the club itself, is not something she knows about, she thinks. She's still herself.

She sips and she sips again, and eventually she tries to giggle without making noise. Even though the people around her are fuzzier than usual (what now?) she can tell the bartender is amused and trying to hide it.

Who cares, that was supposed to be her mantra: who cares, who cares, who fucking cares.

This world—or really, the way she views it—it's another one of her delusions. That's all it is, and she should learn to shut up even when she isn't talking. She should learn to shut up. To shut up, to shut up.

She pays for another glass, and maybe she's lost in a different way now. She didn't expect this in the slightest, before.

"How the hell did you get in here?" someone asks her suspiciously.

She gives him a withering stare and he recoils, and she discovers she was not lying, back when she was seventeen and told someone she could do that. Who was it she told again? Those "best years of her life" weren't the very best, she supposes; that must be why she doesn't remember much about them at the moment.

"You should get home," she hears from behind her, and whirls around, trying to go slowly. Who is this, who's talking to her? No one knows her here, and when she does turn around she is right: this guy doesn't know her. She lets out a relieved breath. Obviously, it's not that she's drunk, but still she probably looks awful.

His hair is spiked and his eyes are piercing green and they're staring right at her, but she admits he doesn't look mean.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm fine." _I'm fine, I'm fine._

"Okay." He holds up his hands. "Okay, you're fine."

-

She molds herself into this new perception of the city: a dirty place, instead of a magical place where dirty stuff goes on. It all must be a façade, though; one that is understood when the hazing is over and you are indoctrinated into this new, incredibly extensive, huge group of people and places and things.

This isn't what it's really like in the end, not for People With Potential.

There's tons for her to reach for, out there; she isn't just a New York City girl. She isn't average. She used to feel shy and scared, admitting that, but now she knows it. She's positive.

It's not that she doesn't totally believe in this—how could she not? It's just that it gets so _frustrating_. There's a method here, she knows there must be. She has to let loose a little, and live, and have fun, but keep working, and suddenly she'll see the light.

She accepts the idea and moves on from her obsession with doing better, being recognized. She takes a breath of smog-filled city air and sashays just over the line between angelic and dark, with a bit of a flair as she goes. She picks things up easily; it's one of the talents she is most proud of.

She can't drive. As if she could afford a car and a place to park it, here. Her mode of transportation is resting in small-town Connecticut, so she relies on cabs, buses, and subways and she feels like a regular. She feels proud, and so capable. She knows how to manipulate the city to her liking.

She'd never do anything _illegal._ She'd never be seen wearing sparkly clothes; she'd be careful where she walked at two in the morning. She wouldn't do anything _wrong_.

She has a life; it's not a crime.

All is temporary (those are magic words).

-

She looks different and there are more circles under her eyes more often, but inside she hasn't changed, not what matters, isn't that right. She can still pull the same wide array of smiles, too: innocence, sweetness, sly joking, sarcasm. Get-the-hell-away-from-me-I-know-what-I'm-doing. Oh-my-god-it's-you-I-missed-you-what-are-you-doing-here. Yeah-that's-nice-please-go-away-now.

Every shade of the rainbow.

And she is still fucking perfect. It's comforting to know this: that kind of impression lasts.

-

There are crowds on either side of the crosswalks that could form opposing baseball teams, even after weeding out the people who don't like to play.

They are busier even than the sidewalks are, but she's never figured out quite how that works.

You run into people you know and people you don't know. It's a wave, a flash of the hand, someone looking up to wonder hey, do I recognize you? and a confused look following as all he or she sees is a line of different colored coats and backpacks flashing past.

But somehow she notices him there.

Suddenly those "best years" flood back, and suddenly she's dragging him away from the curb and to a corner of the street. What in the world.

"What?" he says, staring at her. His eyes aren't as clear as they used to be; not as perceptive, not as worthy of freezing and melting over.

The hell? It's her, and him, and that's all he's going to say? They didn't split on good terms, but she has gone over it so much in her head, smoothing the edges, she is sure the things they said once upon a time were never really as bad as they seemed then.

"Oh my God."

"You look surprised."

"Oh, no," she says sarcastically. "In a city this huge I totally expected to meet my ex-boyfriend walking across the street. I mean really."

_Ex-boyfriend._ It wouldn't matter, it just sounds so cold and casual, like it should sting him. It doesn't, but the thought presses at him that maybe it should, maybe it will later when his head is clear. Now, it's pounding. There are shitty drivers out where he works. Too many blasting car horns. Too much waiting in crowded trains.

He's still shocking her, even now when she's stopped breathing so hard in surprise, and they're staring at each other and they've calmed down. Her heart's beating, and not in a million years would she think he could hear it, but she can, and that is bad enough.

She thinks she feels her glittering baby blues shooting arrows through him, claiming him as hers. He pays no attention whatsoever; he's immune to it by now. She should never expect him to be here, should never have expected to lay eyes on him again.

And yet something has wormed its way through her consciousness that tells her this was never unlikely and she should have been counting on it, all this time.

Perhaps his is the face and the touch and the voice that will release her from this prison she's created for herself. But she doubts it.

He looks different. Something about his eyes captivates her (but of course not really). The way he's standing there, totally confident: she is insignificant in his world. It's nice, to know he's better (better?). But it hurts, to think maybe he's never needed her at all.

Fine then, she thinks, fine then. It's polite to say hi, not that politeness has ever been anything he gives a damn about. She's sure to be sorry, for calling herself to his attention, but maybe something took control of her back there, or something. She'd had to.

She's missed dry humor that was never really humor at all but cutting ways of telling the truth. Sarcasm to match hers, even her mother's. Smarts and speed reading skills to contest her own, possibly because they're hidden so much better and don't get nearly so much use on display.

No, she just misses unusual people, she thinks. Eccentricity is the normal for her now—she wants to see someone stand at the edge, pay no attention to what everyone else does, and still take all in stride.

"What else would you expect?" he says dryly.

"Jess." What he says; it resonates too well with the ideas speeding through her mind, so rapidly, allowing her only flashes of what should be detailed thoughts.

"Don't say my name."

"Jess—"

"I said don't fucking say it like that."

"What, someone stalking you?"

"Nah, it's just the effect it all has." He rolls his eyes and looks at the sky for a minute. He hears it in his head, her voice, saying Jess Jess Jess. It kills him again every time.

No one's died more times than he has.

It springs up on him so suddenly, and then he has the undeniable, desperate urge to get away. The city presses in on him from all sides, and so does she, and he wants to rip the sky apart.

He won't remember all this, later.

"You okay? See you around."

He turns to start walking away and something tugs at her heart. She hates him messing with her like this. Yes, it was his fault, it's all him, it always is! Damn him.

Damn them.

It's not fair.

"You're insane!" she tells him, well aware that she is too. After all this crap…all this I'm so perfect, all this 'I hope' and 'I think maybe'.

"Entirely," he concedes. "Let go." She's still gripping his sleeve, her knuckles white, and she tries valiantly not to let herself turn red—she had forgotten she was holding him, was keeping him with her. Does she even want to keep him here? Should he even be here in the first place?

Should she?

"Would you let go." Again, it's not a question.

She's crazycrazycrazy and she doesn't know what she's doing and she thinks maybe that is the whole point. The way he's staring at her is making her crazy. The way he's casually leaning against a building wall and doesn't look shocked in the least.

This is the point of everything, with him and guys like him. He always appears when she's doing something wrong, or something insane, or something that's hurting herself or someone else. He always makes her end up sorry, makes her think back and regret things, which is a feeling she's been lacking lately. (It may be good for her, might it not?) He always makes her heart act up, and if someday she needs bypass surgery it won't be fast food; it'll be all his fault.

He won't even come to the emergency room to see if she's okay.

She has a selective memory. Particularly for the points of past relationships, points to be used in future reunions. If she wants to fight there's nothing good, and if she wants to make up there's nothing bad, and if it's somewhere in between, she remembers only the things about herself.

"Rory?"

"Don't say my name." Her body and her voice are forcing her to do things she would never consider, and she is being possessed, and god she's crazy she needs help!

She's fucking crazy for him right now.

He makes her crazy for him. She hates him! She still hates him. She told him that she did, once upon a time, and she's sure that she meant it.

She wants warm skin against hers and the comforting reassurance that not everything is supposed to be okay. The smell of smoke she can't stand mixed with the low roughness of his voice after he used to kiss her, and the gentle brush of his hands against her back. The promise that everything fixes itself eventually, and the confirmation it is true that good girls drink.

Going crazy, dealing with it. She's learned how to do that.

"Fine." He shoves his hands in his pockets. As she steps forward she's pretty sure she smells alcohol, and she revels in the scent of something familiar.

She presses herself up against him, leaning on him, melding herself against him and discovering that she still fits perfectly. Her mouth to his, his hands on her shoulders, so suddenly. His arms wrap themselves around her, holding her there; sprinting away is not an option. Instead she kisses him again, more forcefully this time, and he responds eagerly, even desperately, so quickly. More than just a kiss, she thinks. This is more than nothing. This is different and special and just for me.

His lips move against hers, and then she breaks away and breathes deeply; drunk on him, this alluring mystery that comes with him. Part of the package. He's holding her up. His hand touches her face, gently sliding through her hair. She feels everything at once.

Everything's alright.

His hand is cold on her flushed skin and she blushes deeper, aware that she's staring. He touches her, wrapping his hand around her gloved one and she's tempted to slip off her glove.

That is clearly too romantic for anyone like Jess.

She buries her face in his shoulder and she's overwhelmed by smoke, the cigarettes he hasn't stopped smoking and maybe never will.

She whispers "quit" into his jacket, silently, moving her lips. Give me hope.

He can tell, but he doesn't apologize. He has to let go of her now, and he does, and reluctantly she pushes every bit of desire she once had for him to the back of her mind and her heart and consciously destroys it. It's gone for good.

Never mind him.

It's all over in an instant and then he has disappeared. She thinks she should cry but she still feels his lips on hers, and after all, it was just a chance meeting on a street in Manhattan.

Nothing unusual or wrong about that.

Casually, she slips her hand in her jacket pocket, continuing down the street with a spring to her step. The wind stings her face and she's biting her lip so hard it bleeds, but she'll be fine.

Absolutely fine.

He won't remember this as anything, she knows. He had that dazed look in his eyes, that youaresoforgettable look. She's seen it before, and now she has fallen victim to temptation, like she swore she never would.

She's only so far done that with people she loved.

It's hilarious how fast things change, switch, blink from scenario to scenario. She thinks of songs that would fit in the background of this video montage, but even with all the music she stores in her head for times like this, none that fit right come to mind.

She disappears into a crowd and she's gone, from him, from everyone but herself. Satisfied that she has proven _she's_ changed, but not too much.

She is willing to do things, "things" being defined in a huge multitude of different ways.

But like she is supposed to, she still feels just a little guilty.


	3. Sobriety

**Not Alone**

**Chapter 3 - Fairytale**

**Disclaimer:** No owning going on. Lyrics are still Dashboard Confessional's; reference from mythology.

**A/N: **This is the final chapter. Thanks very much to everyone for the support on this fic. All reviewers—I appreciate it tons. I'm sorry this took so long. By the way, to clarify: I didn't base this on the actual history of the show. I suppose I could go into what actually happened in their past…but this is only about what's happening "now."

To Lorena, and Kellie, for all the encouragement. To Elise, because she shared inspiration cookies with me! And to Robin, for the fantastically fabulous read-over.

-

_and time has been spread so thin_

_it's just hours till the day begins_

_and the things that are keeping you here_

_are not keeping me here (at all)_

-

"You need me. This place is fucking disgusting," he states.

"Yeah, well, I know where you live," Trevor answers skeptically.

His head still pounds, residue from the previous night, but he lets the repetitive clicking form mountains and molehills inside ridges in his brain. He's so mind-numbingly used to this. Sometimes he longs for more pain. Sometimes he wishes he were in more trouble.

Stay away from that which steals the green. Stay far away from that which brings out the deep red blood.

Somehow, the two are always intertwined.

Jess ignores the jab and digs the rag in his hand further into the rough-grained wood of the table.

"Jeez. This entire table is covered in something," he mutters. "And it's sticking to this cleaning crap. You need to start laying down the law, Trev."

"There is no law, Jess." Trevor slams a stack of plates into one of the plastic bins. Dishwasher soap and water sloshes over the edge, onto the counter, dripping into the sink and the edge of a clean mug. "Shiiit."

"Sure there is. 'Quit acting like pigs or get the hell out.' It's nothing too hard."

"Unfortunately, in a service-oriented business, we're bound to that whole courtesy thing, if we wanna make some kind of profit. Plus, there's the money. And the tips. Different in…what is it…your…?"

Jess glares at the salt shaker. Trevor stares and watches him say nothing, understanding perfectly.

Unemployed. Screw him: everybody's been there. Everyone starts out that way. Some people can climb out of the hole, some can't (that is just the way it is). If you can't, well then. 'Least serve as a scapegoat for those still making their way there.

He gets drunk, off the 'job'. It doesn't make sense not to have what you want.

He sails on nonexistent ideas of warm skin and soft lips; he tastes unreality and cold metallic failure with every sip of liquor. Tap water begins to taste equally bitter, equally unsatisfying, and much less costly. He is thankful only that he doesn't have to shell out multiple dollar bills for glass bottles of Pellegrino.

In college, they drink bottled water, don't they, he thinks bitterly.

He likes to lie to himself, ridiculous tall tales to remind himself he is (always) somewhat inferior.

In college, they run their brand new silver cars over Nalgene bottles, making bets as to whether they will break.

Then, they buy new ones.

-

She is no longer good at her delicate art form: The Normal Conversation. She can't keep it up; she frightens people away. She'll believe anything. She's no good at listening. She feels like Atlas, sometimes.

Hello, I'd like some help holding up the world!

It's not like she hasn't tried.

It's only that she hasn't tried hard.

And that, as she's proved now, gets one nowhere.

Degradation piles on her shoulders. She has points on her license, she has parking tickets left unpaid. She forgets to lock her car door and she tortures herself with the fact at night. She awakens and leaves the next morning to find the car in the same position, doors frozen shut.

It's a routine.

That's all.

She feels _worthless_. She's getting used to it, being unhappy. But no matter how upset she is, there's always that reclusive spark of hope. Hang on, hang on.

-

She weighs on his mind. She wasn't supposed to.

That meeting was much too sudden, too unexpected to be real, to be normal. But it is this that confirms it was not a drunken fantasy: his tend to be all too realistic. They are nothing but painful. They would make her cry; for him they only hurt. They tear and rip, they spike and throb inside him, he deals. Sometimes he thinks West Point is located inside his head. Sometimes he thinks he's lying underneath stampeding bison. Sometimes he thinks he's stuck here, here in this life for forever, and he'll never wake up from this.

-

When she leaves the café she's been sitting in, still coffee-less, a stranger has to grab her arm to steady her, she's shaking so much. His twinkling eyes are asking if she's overdosed on caffeine. She stumbles and his face sobers, and he asks gingerly if she needs a ride, or anything.

No, she tells him.

"Let me give you a hand. You got work?"

"Not today," Rory mumbles.

"Need a drink?"

"What kind of drink?"

He laughs out loud. "So you're one of those girls?"

She flushes. "No." She pushes past him and he shuts the door in her face, his arm crossing her eyes and nose just slowly enough for her to see how good he smells, how much better it is than smoky nothing.

"You're not going anywhere. Calm down." He calms her with his eyes, bright and hazel, an unwavering stare. "Espresso? Mocha?"

She talks too quietly for him to hear until she realizes he means it, she's not getting away without an answer.

"Either."

Against her best judgment, she sits; he pushes a to-go cup into her hand. She sips, and chokes, and stares angrily at the table. It's black coffee, strong; there is nothing else in it. She burns her tongue but continues drinking.

"Good," he says triumphantly. "That'd wake anyone up."

"Congratulations," she answers sardonically.

"So. I believe an explanation is in order," he states.

"You do."

"Yeah, I do. I bought you coffee."

"Some coffee."

"Aren't we grateful. That's what happens to the indecisive. Let's start with names, shall we?" He waits, impatient. "Nick."

"Rory."

"What're we doing here, Rory?"

"What is this 'we' stuff?"

"Okay. You tell me, I'll tell you." She looks at him warily. This one, he won't give in on. He sounds nice. His hair's not spiked and it's not dyed green.

He bought her coffee. She feels like crying.

-

"Thank you," she says shyly as they bus their table.

Gently, he lays a hand on her wrist. "It gets fun, eventually, I promise."

Startled, she looks into his eyes. (Whatever you do, don't. get. mesmerized.) "Gets fun?"

"Being an adult," he says kindly, smirking slightly. "We can't all be seventeen forever." He expects, she thinks, that she will laugh.

Crisply, she slides her empty tray into place, tosses away her to-go cup with a flick of her wrist. She feels herself slip back into her mind, and she's relieved; only a little sad.

"Thanks for the coffee," she bites off. "Have a nice life."

He doesn't say a word, mentally kicking himself and taking a long swallow of his own drink.

_One of those girls_.

A rush of cold air catches her as she slams the door, and instantly she falls apart. There have been few moments in the past few weeks when she felt safe, when she was okay…when she was afraid for the right reasons. That's what she wants right now, what she needs. She wants that one instantaneous coincidence back, to hold, to hang on to. If she got another chance, she wouldn't let go so very quickly. She cannot taste him on her lips and she wishes she could.

Serendipity, please, she begs, silently.

But he's very much gone.

Shit, she thinks.

That's gone, she corrects herself quickly. That's gone, it's gone. _It_'s gone.

_He's gone._

-

She's tried to lie to herself, but she saw where he walked when he left her.

She's tried to be her nonchalant self, but constantly, incessantly, half-consciously sometimes, she's been watching for him, and she's been finding answers. She does not stop to think that he is leaving clues, red herrings, an unclear yet discernible path. She feels a little smarter when things come to light, when clues fit together and start to make sense: the door of a bar she recognizes that swings shut when he slips inside, the stoplight crossing Lexington she saw him pass when she roamed the city. It's good for her, it's better than losing her mind, and she has nothing else to fill it with.

Now, though, the hints have disappeared. Her mind is a blank slate; in the place of chalk marks there is guilt. Screeching and poking, etching itself into her. Rivets tearing through her skin, liquid regret stinging the cuts they leave behind.

**-**

The bartender knows her name. He could greet her, but he doesn't. She sits at the counter and edges her stool over until most of her face is hidden by a pillar. She is not here awaiting conversation, she isn't here to lose herself in someone else.

Soon Danny (bartender and boss) slips on his leather jacket and is gone, leaving Alexa (thin and tall, with strikingly bright hair that may or may not be dyed, 'Lessie' at the bar) to take over, most likely to entice the guys surrounding Rory to do just that, lose themselves. When she grows tired of teasing them, holding shot glasses just out of reach before she sets them down, she notices Rory.

It's convenient, this place, that way.

"Let me guess," Lessie says loudly.

Her voice naturally echoes across the entire building, especially now: it's all comparatively quiet. Occasional arguments burst from groups of people hunched together—besides that, there are sounds of clunking glasses; the sipsand gulps one usually hears at this time of evening.

"Please don't."

"Little Miss Stubborn." Rory has had it for 'little,' tonight. She's about to open her mouth when the comment she plans appears in the centers of her eyes. "Sorry," Lessie amends, quickly as possible. Rory straightens. "…You haven't had anything yet."

"I don't need one."

"You don't."

"No."

"I wouldn't pick this as a lounge chair then, sweetie."

Rory glares.

"Fine," she says, moving back to the boys who are now holding up mugs and shouting, catcalling. "Just fine." She drags out the last syllable, long and slow, and Rory's lip trembles, but she bites it hard, tasting blood, digging her fingernails into her wrist.

"Lessie."

Alexa also has an ear for the quiet tones; the people who don't yell or pathetically try to provoke her tend to be those who need a drink most. She's glad to get away from all the screaming. (Exhilaration from that shit is always brief.)

"I'll take that drink, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

Rory takes a shaky breath, wrapping her hand around the cold glass and holding it up, steady. She angrily shoves back the sudden temptation to say "Here's to you," and she swallows it hard, several swallows' worth it looks like; she only needs a few. It's all the memories, it's all that lonely crying, it's all the desperate fucking desire, done and gone, down her throat.

"That," a rough voice says behind her, "looks like exactly what I need."

Maybe she expected this. Either way, she does not look up. Water slips from her eyes to her chin, she covers her face with her hands.

"Don't be shy." It's soft, still so roughly said; in another universe the statement could be construed as gentle. She wishes, for a moment, that they could live in that one.

"I'm not," she cries. "I just, just, hate you."

-

Take two, the producer shouts, clapping sharply (go! go! go!).

In this new scene, she's waiting for someone she knows, someone who happens to look vaguely like Jess. It's not his fault and it's not on purpose, it's just the slightly Italian look, the curly brown hair, the way the eyes are set in his face, perhaps his smile.

The old Jess (as she's affectionately taken to referring to him, in this second cut); there was a dead nerve or something at the edge of his mouth that she always felt when he kissed her. She loved his smirk, and she saw it so often, but now, in this new scene, she has someone new, who fully smiles.

In this new scene, this man sweeps in and in the same movement, his arm goes around her waist. Lessie smiles at him, a smile of recognition, a smile at Rory that says she knows he is hers, and Rory smiles back.

In this new scene, she is wearing a jacket even though it's not cold, because it has memorabilia in the pockets, ticket stubs and plastic rings, and she wants it to be close to her. And after they're done, she will get on the back of his bike and they will ride away, they will ride fast with the wind in her hair.

She has just come back from a concert, meeting this man here. He is asking her how it was. She's forgetting the song name, and the band name, and she's even forgetting his name, and she wishes she could cry, but she won't allow herself to.

The alcohol sours in her throat; it is very cold in her mouth.

-

"I hate you," she repeats.

"Nice to know I'm remembered. Lessie?"

Alexa glances from Jess to Rory. Connection? she is asking. Do you mind? Would you tell me? Rory can feel the curiosity, spilling across the counter, searing her hands and her wrists and her elbows resting on the wood. Instinctively, she pulls back and does not open her mouth. Jess takes the hint and stares at Rory instead, not even looking to accept the mug Alexa sets in front of him. He takes it with his left hand, raises it to his mouth, and stares as if it's a contest. Desperately, Rory tries to recall if he has blinked yet.

"What?" she says, making an effort to be affronted.

"Come on, you want it."

(Attention? Perhaps that'd be nice.) "I do not!"

He grabs her glass right out of her hand. She wasn't aware of how tightly she'd been gripping.

For awhile, he watches. She looks up, then down, right left and diagonally. There is nowhere left (in the world) but his eyes, and she damn well won't look there. She bores a hole through her shoes with a withering stare.

"Lessie?" she spouts up suddenly.

"Yes?"

"Another, please?"

He laughs at her, condescending, superior.

"Another," she says with a lower tone.

-

Dizzy.

That's how he'd describe this, right now.

Her, she's dizzy, she can't walk straight.

Him, he doesn't know what he's doing.

This, this is a fucked up situation and he should never have come at all. He will blame it on himself. She will get headaches and throw up. They both will disappear then (and all will be fine).

Him, tired of her attempt to be strong, her, growing sick of his repeating the question ("one more?"), of the flash of _his_ money over the counter to Lessie's hand, of the growing nausea in her stomach.

There won't be the same careful protection, the quick cutting off for a pretty girl with honey brown hair and sparkling blue eyes in a clean cardigan, not with him beside her.

"We're drinking, you and me," she says.

For a long time, he just looks at her, again.

"Oh, Rory," he says, because it's all he can think of.

-

"Oh, god," she says, much later.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"You're not as much of a lightweight as I thought you were," he admits.

"Glad I met your approval." She searches around for her jacket. "Where'd I…" She's standing, feeling around in the darkness, on the floor. The corners of the room are wet and muddy from boots walked through puddles, but she searches there, too. "Where'd I…"

Then she's in a seat at a table on the floor, not the counter, and everyone's around her but at least they're far enough away, not in her face, and she is crying, dry heaving.

He's just sitting there.

"Is that all you wore?" he questions. "I think you've got everything. Calm down."

"I can't fucking drive," she wails.

"You have a car?" he says, raising an eyebrow. She tosses him her key ring, and he catches it overhand, standing up a bit in his seat to reach. "Nice throw." It's a house key—an apartment, he discovers, reading the inscription, and the key to Lorelai's home in Stars Hollow, and a bike lock code on a plastic panel. There's a car key, and a piece of tape with a date to pick it up from the mechanic.

He pockets it.

"Did you have anything yet?" she asks, tilting her head at him. "To drink?"

He's about to say yes, and then he tells the truth.

Part of him wants to make up a story about an AA meeting. It would freak her out, it would scare her into submission and maybe she'd stop screwing herself up. Part of him wants to tell her he doesn't want to corrupt any girls. Part of him wants to tell her, spitefully, that he's on a high from the woman he just slept with and nothing can ruin that, not vodka, not nothing.

"Not yet."

"Go ahead. I'll pay." He resists snorting at this.

"No."

"No?"

He leans back in his seat. "How do you feel right now?"

"Like…like stampedes."

Worry crosses his face. "Like stupid," she says forcefully. "I'm fine." Her voice is slurred and shaky but better than he'd expected. "Is the bus still running?"

He nods, and they sit, and sit, and sit.

The club begins to empty out, more people coming in, the atmosphere quieting down.

"You know, it's not worth it," he tells her.

She turns her head toward him in question. He waves his hand around.

"All this. It's better for celebration, not depression." What a hypocrite. "You won't get this lost." He is eyeing her, up and down, and some urge, something in the back of his throat keeps jerking up to ask if she's okay before he swallows it down.

"I'm not lost."

"No," he agrees. "But you act it very well."

She sniffs and looks up at Jess. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Drunken nights and nothing he really wants. Lost, in the city he knows like the back of his hand, because _he_ fucking _wants_ to be lost. Back alleys for shortcuts when these routes actually take him longer, jobs he shouldn't have had and took anyway that were minimum wage. Unemployment and blank stares from idiots like Trevor. Frustration and no accomplishment and no fucking _nothing_ and damn double negatives.

"Hold out your hand."

Quizzically, dizzily, she does as he says.

Softly, he places her keys back in her palm.

"I don't know why I'm here," he explains.

"Whatever," she mumbles.

He smiles—smirks?—smiles, folding her trembling fingers over the cold metal, keys' ridges digging into her skin, her grip tightening.

"Next time you plan to get smashed," he says, "take me with you."

-

"I never planned this."

"Oh, no?"

"I was trying to impress you."

No. Someone as private as she should never drink (not a sip). Please, Rory, shut up. He wills her to be silent.

"Me?" he inquires.

"Yeah. I, I've never—"

"You're an awful liar."

"This is all lies," she informs him. "I'm not supposed to be here—" Flustered, she glances around, trying to see, has she forgotten anything?

"Damn straight you're not."

They stop, staring at each other. There are tear streaks on her face, dust and sweat on his.

"You know," he says, "I came in here intending to be five minutes away from needing my stomach pumped."

"You're joking," she says, jumbling her syllables as she gets the sentence out.

"Nope."

"What happened?" She shivers, suddenly chilled.

"Saw you."

"Stunned by my beauty?" she says sarcastically, and the thought crosses his mind that he should get her drunk more often.

(Wait. What?)

"Something like that." Her shoe is tapping what she thinks is the table and is really Jess' foot. Anxiously, frantically, she can't sit still. Something about this situation is driving them both crazy, but he notices, she looks a little happier, a twisted kind of happy, a messed up version of the girl he used to kiss above a diner. "You remember where you live?"

Death glare. It's only a little unfocused. (She's been doing a lot of glaring tonight.) 'Does she remember her address?' Excuse him! She's done this before. The memory grabs her heart and wrenches, squeezing hard.

"Okay, then. Get out of here." He's done his job.

She stands, stranded, shaking. Okay, Rory, he thinks in his subconscious. Whatever. Kill me one more time. "Get the fuck out of here," he mutters. He wants her away; he is sick of her false hope. She'll disappear, she'll come back on the front of the paper in a glowing ball gown with a birth announcement and pretty man in a tux beside her, and she won't remember tonight after she splashes the cold water on her face. He is silent, dark and possibly handsome, utterly forgettable.

She leaves. She slams the door behind her and a wisp of cold air slices through the smoky atmosphere and she is gone.

And she opens it again, and she holds her hand up genially, and she stumbles on her feet, looking helpless and silly.

She reaches into his pocket; he braces himself, waiting for her to pull herself flush against him. This is the end of the story, this is the beginning of the fairytale (to think, he never believed in those—surely Cinderella was getting totally screwed over).

She searches in his jacket, right then left side, then, blushing, slips her hand into the pocket of his jeans. She draws out his package of cigarettes.

She tosses it, clumsily, into the garbage. She tries a half-assed imitation of a smirk.

And then she's gone.

And there's a card with a phone number scribbled on the vinyl side, ink already rubbing off on his fingers, in his pocket, imprinting the number on the coat pocket lining with a smudged dark stain.

He doesn't feel lightheaded, he isn't entirely craving relief. Something besides the usual crap, something intangible, has him on a high. She's tripping over litter and debris on side streets now, eyes half glazed over but walking steadily back from the bus stop, on her roundabout way home. He diluted more than half her drinks.

Likely, she will get there.

(Mission accomplished, he thinks. Pride restored.)

Early the next morning, he will arrive at her doorstep, making sure.


End file.
